


Touch

by edgelord666



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Abused Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, ace Sherlock, overcoming sexual abuse, sexually repulsed Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 00:06:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10292969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edgelord666/pseuds/edgelord666
Summary: Sherlock tries to manage a normal relationship with john, despite his less than perfect past. John cuddles him and tells him it's alright, but Sherlock doesn't rlly believe him. Sherly is afraid.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love criticism yo

Sherlock looked at his lover's flushed face, and felt shame rise from the pit of his stomach. He reaches a thin hand out to cup his chin in his hand, running a thumb along the stubble.  
Overgrown. Hasn’t shaved in approximately 2 days.  
Cheap razor…. slightly rustic...

He can scarcely stop the deductions that come at rapid fire, invading his mind that was almost calming down. He closes his eyes shut as tight as they can go without john noticing. 

Concerned. He knows. 

Breathe in, 7. Breath out, 7.

His chest is on fire.

You can do this he thinks to himself, it’s just sex. It shouldn’t be a big deal.

His eyes reluctantly open back up, the edges tinged red with fear. It feels like there are rodents clawing behind his eyes, clogging up his throat, weighing down his brilliant mind. His stare, usually something of a phenomenon, methodically cutting and heavy while telling you nothing he wouldn’t want you to know, that purposeful stare is gone. What replaces it is a weak, nearly milky look. His eyes gleam with a hint of something familiar. ‘Don’t touch me-’ he just manages to choke back.

It is a basic projection of the human need to reproduce. It is primitive and necessary. 

John looks concerned for a moment, and those eyes- dear god those eyes- don’t look look. Please, please don’t-

But he does. He reaches up and grabs the detective's hand- he feels it flinch against his cheek, he didn’t imagine that, right? - and he asks in a voice wavering more than usual, 

“Love?”

Bile rises up in Sherlock's stomach.

The knobby digits intertwine with his, unconsciously tensing up, squeezing down on the others calloused hand. He clears his throat as best he can, opens his mouth, but is at a loss for words when he meets the elder's eyes. He shrinks down, unknowingly becoming weaker. 

This is not frightening. It should not be frightening.

“It’s quite alright,” he says, in the smoothest tone he can manage, but it breaks at the end.  
“I just had a rather sudden thought. Well, a deduction rather, from your uhm, well you see-...” his voice hitches on the last word, tears threaten to spill over.

you really don’t shave too often, do you?” He croaks. 

Johns eyes widen, as the usually calm, collected, brilliant man in front of him starts to shake. He watches him bite his lip so hard it bleeds in an effort not to say anymore, and even as the salty tears sting his eyes, and burn tracks down his hollowed cheekbones. The realization hits him. And it fucking hurts.

“Sherlock I am so sorry, I never should have- it was wrong of me to just-” 

It feels like a freight train ran straight into his chest.  
He hurriedly ,puts his shirt back on, and carefully moves a few paces away from his friend, who is now doing the same, attempting to contain himself. 

“Here, let me-” he tries to unfold sherlock's sleeve

“NO!” He all but screams, “no.” 

Composure.. breath...

“No, dearest Watson, I’m to blame. I knew I was incapable of such physical acts of affection and yet I still,” he straightens his clothing and walks to the crumpled trench coat,  
“There are no words to express the magnitude of my actions in leading you on…” he trails off, john is speechless. 

He tries a wink and a smile, humanizes me he thinks, but it’s strained. He half hazardous tosses the coat over his shoulder and forces himself, as dizzy as he is, to stand.

“Maybe next time, john.” 

He hurries to the door as quickly as he can, hands shaking, and sees himself out. 

He runs as quickly as his feet would allow him, through the cold London streets, through drug dens and back alleys until he finally finds an empty corner to have a breakdown.


	2. Overdose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherly is a sad boi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TEAR ME APART I WANT CRITISISMMMMM

Three days have passed since he ran out on john. Three. Fucking. Days.

He stares at the bullet holes in the wall, painfully tired, and frighteningly numb.  
He hasn't slept since then; he hasn't eaten in longer. 

He’s barely been conscious.

He again lulls over a symphony in his head - a sleepy work in progress- to avoid the odd sinking weight in his stomach that’s begun to grow. He took  
A bit more than his usual dosage.

He glances across to the skull on the mantel, but quickly looks away as it tries to take the form of John Watson.

Pressing his body far into the blue chair cushion, and squeezing his eyes shut, he curls up, bringing his limbs as close to himself as he possibly can, for fear if he doesn't he’ll lose control over his own body- or what's left of it, anyways.

He wonders to himself, almost condescendingly, how he allowed john to get this close. How, after the truths he’d found from experience to be self evident, did he allow this man to slip through the cracks?

His impartiality to friendships, view on the universe and all of its inhabitants, how did they lead to affection for this man? Was it his appearance, his body? Certainly not. Perhaps it was the blind loyalty, the promise of unconditional affection. Perhaps it was the loneliness Sherlock felt himself.

Maybe we should take some more. 

Caught up in searching for his vices, he does not near the doorknob downstairs turn slowly open.

He reaches over the side table and picks up a bottle lazily, not bothering to prepare himself for the injection. He fills the clear tube and sticks himself as quickly as he can, hopefully getting a vein. 

Quit thinking. It’s annoying.

This is misinterpreting feelings of friendship due to a of a lack of experience with people, he tells himself.

Thank again, another part of him thinks, friendships never hurt as much.

He pushes the needle in further, despite it being empty, and winces at the faint pop he feels when he hits the second vein. He takes it out, throws it into the fireplace, and squeezes down on the site as hard as he can to stop the bleeding. 

Take your hand off, you have no right. 

He does not notice the door squeaking open, nor does he hear the footsteps coming upstairs, slowly getting louder and closer.

Friendships don’t make your heart ache, or your face flush bright red when someone else comes near. Friendships don’t leave you with the phantom feeling of longing, or the desire to be held close to his chest, or the late night thoughts about how his sunkist face must be warm against your own-

“Shutup shutupshutupshut up shut up shut up-!” He screams into the ashes.

“...Sherlock!?” John's eyes widen. He reaches out a hand to his friend, “have you been…?”

The detective whirls around in front of him, knees wobbling, eyebrows knit together. 

“Ha!” He spits out bitterly, “you have to be the most realistic one yet!”

He leans against the mantle, barely holding himself up, as a pang of heartbreak goes straight through his chest, relentless and thick. The pain almost makes him cry, but he doesn't have time before his vision begins to go. The last thing he hears is john shouting before it all turns black.


End file.
